


My Time Comes Around

by I_Write_Midnight_Snacks (Pink_and_Purple_Daisies)



Series: Blackout (Bad Things Happen Bingo) [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Broken Bones, Choking, Communication, Drowning, Enemy to Caretaker, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Tries, Jason Todd is Red Hood, LOOK THEY'RE TRYING OK, Nightmares, Recovery, Restraints, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Robin, Torture, Violence, Waterboarding, Whump, by god we gon' get them some Therapy and Communication, or attempts at it at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Purple_Daisies/pseuds/I_Write_Midnight_Snacks
Summary: Tim is being kept awake by odd dreams and vivid nightmares. Nightmares about Jason.He's also going to therapy, now, which is just. So great.So.Bingo Square: What have I done?Bingo Square:
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Blackout (Bad Things Happen Bingo) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189751
Comments: 22
Kudos: 175
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	My Time Comes Around

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for the Whump server, full of dirty, dirty enablers. I've lost sleep because of y'all. Hope you're happy!
> 
> Just to be clear, this is a direct sequel to "Endless Time". If you haven't read that yet, you should go there first, because it's pretty relevant for context!
> 
> Betaed, for once, by [SuperSilverSpy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSilverSpy)! I wouldn't have felt confident enough to roll this out without her, so send her all the love, guys!

Jason has been holding Tim’s coffee prisoner in order to blackmail him into therapy, which is just blatantly unjust.

He may have promised to go if Jason does the same, but he _tried_ , and it’s not doing anything for him. There’s nothing even wrong with Tim, no matter what Jason might insist he saw. He could be doing so much more in that hour and a half, instead of sitting in a chair and glaring while a therapist talks at him.

But Tim is fine, there’s nothing to _talk_ about.

Besides, Tim only promised to go. Not to participate.

Still.

It’s unfair, is what it is. He wants to sleep. He’s tired. He’s barely been sleeping, lately, woken up all the time by weird dreams where nothing happens other than the constant feeling of being watched, and he _just wants coffee_.

At least he talked about the damn dreams, this time, so he gets to have some, but only if Jason is home to make sure, because everyone else is a damn _traitor_ who took Jason’s side on this, and are enabling his quest to get Tim healthy, or whatever.

Like he has room to talk.

Tim is thinking about Jason, waiting for him to _get home and give back his coffee_ as he falls face-first on the couch, willing to even consider taking a nap. Dick would be ecstatic.

It’s weird, trying to reconcile the Jason who’s been haunting the hallways of the manor like a sullen ghost for the last few weeks, with the boisterous Robin that Tim used to admire. He stayed vague about the details of whatever happened during the supposed time loop, only promising to work through it with his own, carefully vetted therapist, but Tim still catches the older teen staring at him, sometimes, with a haunted expression he can’t begin to decipher. He’s not sure he _wants_ the details of the loop.

He yawns. That unwanted nap is coming for Tim one way or another, it seems, because Jason isn’t home yet, so there’s _no coffee_ , and his eyelids feel like lead.

His next breath is deeper, and he tries to stay awake, really. He has stuff to do—several cases open on his desk, training, later in the day—but his head is heavy and his eyes open is too much effort. His breathing evens out against his will.

It’s dark, behind closed eyes, and he’s uncomfortable, but he’s so, so sleepy. He inhales. He exhales. He _chokes_ -

It cuts lines of fire up into his brain, water up his nostrils and in his head and Tim _gags_ but there’s _no air on the next inhale_ —just a wet sensation against his face, cloying and suffocating—he inhales harder but his eyes burn and his lungs burn and there’s still no _air_ —Tim tries to struggle, but horror freezes his limbs when he realizes that he’s stuck like this, limbs tied in place and water, and his sharp, surprised inhale just brings more water and his lungs are seizing for a breath-

“It’s not nice to take a dead kid’s things, you know,” he hears.

And finally there’s _Air_ —for a single, painfully hopeful second he inhales, but just as Jason’s face, grinning malevolently, registers to his brain, he’s choking again. Tears burn his eyes and mix with the water running up his nose when he gasps again and Tim can’t even cry because there’s

_No_

_Air_! 

He can’t stop himself from jerking against the bonds that keep his arms in place, ropes digging into his flesh and fingers twitching uselessly but he has to get away-

He’s trying, he’s really trying but Tim just wants to breathe, and yet he’s suffocating, and crying, he wants to breathe, wants to _sleep_ because he’s _so tired_ , but he doesn’t know how long this’ll last, doesn’t know why Jason’s-

Air and light come like a barbed blessing and Tim gasps-

Shoots up with a sudden breath and falls off the couch.

He’s coughing and spluttering, lungs still seizing instinctively with the texture of the rug a grounding sensation—like rope burn against his skin, chafing and painful -

“Fuck,” he curses, as he rolls onto his back.

That was… what? Awful? Terrifying? He’s still panting, trying to tell his frantic heartbeat that there’s no danger, calm down. That felt too real.

Maybe his therapist was on to something. Tim scoffed at her, when she’d mentioned sleeping pills, earlier, but he needs… he can’t… he doesn’t want any more of _this_. Maybe he'll bring that up with her, next time.

He didn’t actually drown, he knows that on some level, but his throat _feels_ almost as if he did in the aftermath. Fuck. Ok. The spot on the ceiling where Dick kicked at it when he was a kid. The chandelier, missing a few of its crystals. The top of the bookshelf on the far side of the room. The ugly yellow couch to his left. Alright. He’s alright. He’s in Wayne manor, safe and breathing.

Not being…

Well.

He’s fine.

***

His therapist doesn’t agree, but what does she know?

It was just a dream. Tim is fine. There’s no reason to blow one bad dream out of proportion. He’ll happily take the sleeping pills that she tentatively suggested, though, because he’d like to get a night of sleep sometime this decade, and get back on track before his work suffers even more.

Something must be showing on his face, because Jason takes one look at him and asks “That bad?”

Tim only glares, but Jason is moving for the coffee, so he gets a pass.

The kitchen smells like heaven, with rich, savory scents Tim has no hope of describing. He’s been helping Alfred around, cooking some of their meals on the days he spends at the manor -something about how making things might be good for him, or whatever -, and Tim gets curious, so he asks “What are you making?”

“Masala dosa,” Jason replies, cheeky grin in place.

Right. Tim doesn’t know shit about food. “Smells amazing,” he admits, though, because he might have no idea what that means, but he’s been salivating since he entered the kitchen.

“Here, baby bird,” Jason says, sliding a mug of coffee across the island to Tim.

He happily accepts the offering, savors it with a stifled moan, “Oh, sweet liquor of life,” and he’s so busy enjoying the wonderful beverage that he almost misses the constipated look on Jason’s face for a second. That’s absolutely not something Tim is equipped to deal with though—Dick can demand all the movie nights and deal with all of Jason’s moods, but Tim will happily avoid any of that.

Time to deflect.

“Right, so I’m gonna go take a shower until that’s done.”

***

He freaks out in the shower. His therapist might have been right.

By the time he returns to the kitchen, he’s sick to his stomach, and the food smells like puke.

***

He manages to put it out of his mind for a couple of weeks.

Dick insisted on family movie nights, and when he looked so damn hopeful, nobody had the heart to tell him no. So, every few nights, they all gather in the manor, and every time Jason keeps his word and shows up, Dick smiles like the sun.

They don’t bring up all the heavy topics on those evenings, so it’s almost nice. Even though every time, Bruce throws Tim to the shark—singular, because in this case it means Dick and his death cuddles. Tim doesn’t hate them, really, but he’ll be damned if he admits it, when they’re still going on about touch starvation and shit. He’s _fine_.

Tim ends up falling asleep halfway through more often than not, but every time, he’ll wake up swaddled in a blanket, being carried to his own bed.

Jason never gets close to Tim on those evenings, sitting on the other side of the room all the time, but he’s pretty sure he’s the one who carries Tim to bed at least sometimes. It’s nice. His arms are really warm, and really strong.

He might like a hug from Jason.

***

Then one night, he falls into bed, tired and sore from a bad day and an even worse patrol. Jason had an episode and stormed out of the manor, raging. Everyone in the family was on the fizz, and Tim gets it, he does, there’s a lot of Stuff to work through, that Tim doesn’t know enough about to be involved in.

Just, well. It would be nice if they could do it in a way that doesn’t make everyone sad and distracted, when there are criminals with real guns shooting at them. Maybe he should suggest couple’s counseling.

Wait, no. Damnit, his therapist is getting to him, if that’s his first response. He scrunches his nose at that. For some reason it feels like Tim just lost.

Alas, Tim gets to go to bed with stitches in his arm from a bullet that was originally aiming for Dick. He’s also off patrol for the moment, so maybe he _did_ lose.

He sighs. At least with the forced break he might actually get around to working those cases that are still waiting on his desk.

The sounds of gunshots still follow him in sleep.

His stitches hurt and his arm hurts and his _leg_ hurts but he’s still trying to run, his bo staff gripped tight as a would-be cane. The footsteps behind him are deliberately slow, but Tim knows better. His pursuer is skilled, relentless. If he catches Tim, it’s game over, so he pushes through the breathlessness, through the agony, and rounds the corner, down into another endless hallway, _Think think think_ —there’s a weapons room just down the next hallway. If he makes it that far, he’ll find something useful.

Alright, he can do this.

Objective: weapons storage room. Distance: Two hallways down. With Hood’s pace, Tim will need to go faster though, and his leg is busted, but that’s nothing to what Hood will do, so he can push himself more.

He reaches the next corner, and salvation is in sight.

The sound of the gunshot crashes dizzyingly off the wall long before he feels it—a sharp, excruciating blade of fire right through his knee.

He goes down with a gasp, and it only gets worse from there.

Tim never really wanted to know what it sounds like when his fingers break under a heavy, steel-tied boot, but the feeling at least pales compared to everything else

 _I was right_ he thinks at one point, while Hood is strangling him against the wall and his vision is going black, he really does have strong arms. He isn’t sure where the thought came from; doesn’t like that gut-churning mix of emotions that comes with it.

He doesn’t like a lot about what’s happening, but it doesn’t stop for a good, long while.

***

He wakes up heaving for breath, with tears on his cheeks and sweat on his _everything_ and the phantom pains of broken limbs. This one was the longest yet, and Tim gets the message. No more sleeping pills.

Fuck. He’s so tired. He can’t function. He can’t _work_. He’s becoming more and more useless and Tim _can’t afford to be useless_.

Fuck.

***

It’s a few days after that big blowup, when he’s going for breakfast, still exhausted and wrung out, that Tim hears the tail end of a conversation from beyond the kitchen’s ajar door.

“No, he—fuck, he was right. I _was_ mad. I was furious, Dick.”

“And… now?”

Jason sighs, deep and long. It’s silent for a few seconds, but Tim waits and sure enough, “Part of me still is.” It sounds harrowing. It sounds like an admission of guilt. “But I get it, now. I was dead. I should be happy you didn’t just stop living because of that. I will be. Eventually.”

“Alright,” Dick says, after a second.

“Alright?”

“Yeah.”

Tim doesn’t know which argument this was a conclusion to—he probably never _will_ know what all they’ve been working through between themselves. But he sees how hard this whole reunion has been for his family, so he’s glad to know that they’re taking strides forward, however small.

He smiles, and finally goes for the door.

And _freezes_.

His hand on the door, about to push, a chill goes up his spine and Tim feels a wave of undefined dread.

And just like that, it passes.

***

He’s surprised to find the memorial case missing from the cave.

***

“Alright, kid, spill.”

He was expecting a confrontation, eventually. It’s blatantly unfair that Jason chose now of all times, though, as the scent of cinnamon and honey wafts through the cozy loft and melts what little of Tim’s self restraint wasn’t already shot by sleep deprivation.

He squints defiantly at his brother.

Jason is going to hold the cupcakes hostage if Tim doesn’t talk, though. Tim wants to protest against this method of interrogation.

“Spill what?” he asks, just to be contrary.

Jason rolls his eyes, pointing at Tim with the wooden spoon he’s been washing. “Don’t be cute with me, baby bird. You’ve been weird lately. What happened?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A snort. “Right,” Jason says. “And I didn’t catch you freezing in front of a door the other day.”

That’s… Tim doesn’t know. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean he has an answer, and it’s infuriating, because Tim is used to knowing things. “I don’t know,” he admits, his nose scrunching in displeasure. “It happens, but I don’t know why, ok? Linda says it’s probably something about control and the unknown and whatever, but I don’t see it. It doesn’t add up.”

“Hmm. Here,” Jason humms, dropping the spoon back into the sink. He grabs the mixing bowl, though, and instead of setting up to wash it, he slides it across the island towards Tim. “Clean this for me, baby bird,” he says with a cheeky smile. Tim doesn’t need to be told twice. Jason isn’t even calling him a heathen for dipping his fingers straight in the fresh dough, for once, and Tim will take full advantage of this unique chance.

He happily cleans the bowl of cookie dough while Jason finishes tidying his kitchen, and it’s almost comfortable. He might fall asleep.

“Did you know there’s a department for legally bringing people back to life? It’s a whole thing, the paperwork and shit. Bruce told me.”

Tim stalls.

“Is that what you want?”

Jason shrugs. “I don’t know. _Bruce_ wants me to.” There’s no mistaking _that_ tone of voice, at least. Tim is very familiar with it from Dick’s periodic tangents on Bruce. Good to know some things run in the family. “But I’m still not…”

He trails off, and Tim doesn’t push. It’s been clear since the start that Jason isn’t ok, and it’s only become more obvious in the time since. If it’s a complicated issue, then pushing is only going to make him withdraw, though, Tim knows that full well.

“I didn’t think about this part. That it could be an option. And I wanna make better choices, but I don’t know…”

So Tim sets down the bowl, and pulls out his phone, and lets Jason think.

The scent wafting from the oven is sweet and thick and Tim is drooling before long, checking his email and waiting for the cupcakes to come out, when Jason finally breaks the silence again.

“I could go to college,” is all he says, coming around the island to scoop up the bowl, while Tim is putting down the phone to look at his brother again.

“What would you study?” he asks, aiming to keep things light. To his credit, Jason seems to actually consider that as he’s grabbing the bowl, leaning slightly against the edge of the island.

“I’m not sure. I always thought Literature, before, but who knows?”

Tim shrugs. “No rush, right? Bruce can wait until you figure it out.”

Jason’s smile is dry, but his words drip with sincerity. “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, baby bird,” he says. “Oh, here, you’ve got something…” He raises a hand, movement almost absent, to reach for Tim’s cheek—as easily as Dick would to brush away a stray hair or a crumb of bread, and Tim is already angling his face forward.

Just as suddenly, his blood turns to ice. Waves of dread wash over him like nothing before and Tim _freezes_ —just for a second.

But it’s enough.

Jason sees, of course he does—he’s well trained, but even more, he’s always had killer instincts. Tim’s flinch is basically a projection, and Jason cringes back, and Tim—his hands are shaking. “You’ve got something on your cheek,” Jason says lamely.

The light air is washed away as easily as it came.

Tim should talk to his therapist.

_(He’ll remember to be bitter about that thought, later.)_

***

Linda talks to him about touch starvation and touch aversion, and Tim admits somewhere in the back of his mind that she might be on to something with that one, at least. None of that explains why he only ever had that reaction with Jason, though.

***

Tim ends up handing Bruce one of the cases he’s too tired to finish. Tears pull at his eyes the entire time, but he can’t make himself even more of a nuisance by breaking down here.

***

Tim doesn’t have the energy to do much more than glare. His whole body is wrung out, muscles painful and lax from current running through him, again and again. Possible nerve damage, his mind screams, and Tim shuts it out because he’s not about to cry. Not now. Not for Jason, who -

His hero, who wants to see Tim break, because Tim took his costume and -

And he’s coming back. Fuck. Tim isn’t going to cry.

He crouches in front of him, letting Tim take a good look at him, at last, and… he knew, but—but it’s really Jason. Older, and bigger—with green eyes and white in his hair, sure, but Tim knows that face, knows that voice, and it hurts, but if his childhood hero is going to torture Tim, then he’s going to look him in the eye as he does, and Tim is finally going to let the Robin he once idolized die.

“B always did like his kids to fit a profile, I guess,” Jason finally says. His voice is so even, so empty, that Tim recoils from him, and Jason fails to suppress a smile. “You have pretty eyes, Replacement.”

He hates the sound of that. Never take your eyes off the enemy—you have to watch them at all times, that’s one of the first rules, yet Tim still manages to fail at it by snapping his gaze down to Jason’s hands instead. To the _bleach container_ and oh no. Dread turns to sick comprehension, and his blood turns to ice in his veins. Tim wants to throw up.

Jason grins.

“Let’s see how well you do without them.”

It doesn’t matter how hard Tim tries—and he really does, he squeezes his eyes shut waits and waits and _waits_ but it’s a losing game. Jason’s hand is so gentle on his face that he almost breaks right there, and despite everything, _nobody ever touched Tim that gently_. It’s almost worse than the torture.

When he loses his control, Jason strikes. Tim barely has time to regret his mistake.

For a second, he doesn’t even feel it—a pressure against his eye, an odd twisting in his gut—and then it _burns_.

Tim screams until his throat hurts, until his wrists bleed from pulling at the ropes and his voice cracks with effort, but Jason is unrelenting. It’s searing agony like nothing before and it _doesn’t stop hurting_ , doesn’t get easier—Tim’s lungs spasm—“Pl-please, Jas-Jason stop, p-p-please” he chokes out between sobs.

And Jason doesn’t, until finally, he does.

For an awful, terrifying second, the world stills and time stops. Tim _can’t see_.

He can’t—And if—But now—From now on—more and more thoughts mesh in his head and twist together in a sickening cacophony, overwhelmed by the nauseating reality that _this is it_.

Then, time moves. The dam breaks, and Tim _cries_.

Sobs rack his frame between heaving gasps. Tim coughs and shakes, rubbing at his burning eyes and the broken skin around them because the tears only make it worse and it _hurts so much_ but Tim can’t stop-

-crying as he startles awake. It’s a disorienting moment, his brain rebooting and processing the world around him— _he can see the world around him_ , but he was so sure—and then he sees Jason.

His hands snap up in a dizzying move to cover his eyes—sore, sore and tender but they’re not flaming. But it doesn’t matter; there’s nowhere to escape. He’s pressed right up against the back of the couch, tangled in a blanket with Jason right there, and he there’s no path forward.

“Tim?” Jason says, in that voice that has Tim flinching away. _Begging doesn’t help_ , his brain helpfully supplies. He presses the pads of his hands against his eyes, because it’s all he can do, not to protect himself but at least to hide the tears.

“Oh, no,” Jason says, then, and God, fuck, Tim has to get himself together. This is reality, and he’s fine—It was just a dream, yet now he’s freaking out for no reason.

“I’m ok,” he sniffs, “Just give me a second,” even though his heart is still pounding; even though he’s freaking out just thinking about Jason, which is absurd, because he’s alright, and it was Just a Dream.

“Baby bird-” Jason’s voice wavers, so he stops, and starts again. “Tim. You’re alright. Take your time,” he says, tone heavy in a way Tim can’t begin to parse, not when he’s not ready to even look at him.

It helps, being in this room. The familiar scent of old wood and assorted snacks that layers the entire room is grounding, and now that he’s relaxing into it, the couch is soft enough to contrast anything he felt in that dream. Jason shifts, though, Tim can hear it clearly, and against his will, he finds himself go tense. “Don’t-” he starts, and chokes it down.

But Jason doesn’t come for him. He moves away.

Tim is caught between sobbing in relief, and dragging him back.

The shuffling stops before long. “Ok. You’re alright. Wanna talk about it?”

Tim can’t—he can’t, he shakes his head no.

“Alright, then,” he continues, softly, from across the room. “I’ll be right here, if you need anything,” he finishes.

It’s alright.

He’s alright.

It was only a dream. He keeps repeating that.

Jason’s even breaths are a steady weight to anchor himself and remember to breathe.

He’s alright.

He can see.

He’s in the manor.

“I’m ok,” he says after a while.

“Ok,” Jason says. “Ok. Think you can look at me?” he asks, and Tim’s breath catches, he chokes on-

“I can’t-” He can. Fuck. He can see. It was just a dream _-It felt so real-_ but what if he opens his eyes and- “I can’t—I can’t look -”

“Why can’t you look, Timbit?” Jason asks, still patient, gentle.

Tim’s next breath shakes. “I can’t—what if -” he tries, but the words won’t come out. “I couldn’t see.”

Silence.

It takes a second—two—five for it to break. Breaths, picking up in panic, and a strangled noise that isn’t coming from him; another second to force his eyes open, to see _\- to see -_ that it’s Jason. That Jason’s staring straight back, and Tim’s heart stammers at that _\- You have pretty eyes, Replacement._

“Tim, I…” he breaks off, tension radiating off every line in his body. He’s seen Jason look wrung out before, after fights with Bruce and bad therapy sessions, but never this wrecked. Not since that morning, when he first came back.

“It’s ok, Jason, it’s not… It was a dream.”

Yet he still can’t quite meet Jason’s eyes.

“It was me, wasn’t it,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but Tim’s silence is an answer regardless.

“Fuck.” It bounces off the walls of the manor with mounting dread, building and breaking, until he continues, hollow. “Shit, goddamn… what have I done?”

“No, Jason, it’s… It was a dream, it’s not your fault.”

“But it is,” he says, and it’s heavy. It sounds like a realization. Like condemnation. “You’ve been having dreams. But they aren’t… I thought…”

He stops, stands, and Tim flinches, despite himself. He isn’t following, doesn’t understand. Jason is going somewhere with this though, somewhere Tim won’t like one way or another. Jason is _laughing_ , and there’s not a sliver of joy in it.

“It’s all my fault,” he says. “Those aren’t dreams, kid. They’re memories.”

Tim feels sick. Bile burns its way up his throat before Tim chokes it down, and he was right, he hates this. He wants it to stop. Jason’s laughing, but Tim doesn’t feel like doing the same. He doesn’t want to know.

The world never cared for what Tim wanted.

“They’re memories of the time loop, baby bird.”

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
